Title: Midnight HourCharacters: House, WilsonRating: GGenre: AngstWord Count: 575Summary: Night looms for House and Wilson, separated by miles and bars. Both must find a way to cope. This is the third in the Hour series, begun yesterday morning with Visiting Hour, and continued yesterday evening with Happy Hour.

MIDNIGHT HOUR

Wilson lies on the thin cot and stares at the ceiling. Two weeks ago, they'd noticed he wasn't sleeping, and now he's on the wait list to see the prison psychiatrist; they're concerned that he's depressed, might need anti-depressants. He knows he's depressed, and a little chemical calm wouldn't hurt.

But until he can be evaluated, they offer him a mild sleeping pill each night. He's turned them down every time, save one. And that one time, he'd discovered something wonderful, to invite sleep to come to him. He'd vowed to save that discovery--take the pill only on nights like this one—when sleep would be impossible any other way.

It's a white collar prison; the security in his wing is minimal at best. And they trust him in the infirmary, so as he lies on the cot, staring at the ceiling, he uncurls his hand to peer at the small white pill. He's ready to sleep now. He puts the little tablet in his mouth, and swallows it dry—somehow, that seems... fitting. He waits twenty minutes, and closes his eyes, and then that wondrous thing happens.

He's no longer on a stiff, inch-thick vinyl cot with a jagged rip in the fabric that catches and scrapes at his ankle all night. And his head isn't on a thin, unbendable pillow that won't give to envelope his weary head. No; before the medication takes over, there's a blissful five minutes when he’s lying on a big, dark leather couch, impossibly soft, as familiar to his body as his own name. And his head is on a pillow so forgiving that it willingly absorbs away the headache, gently cradles the painful thoughts. And that spot that catches his ankle all night? That's just House, rapping his shin with the cane, to see if he's awake, if he'll get up and make pancakes. He smiles. And then he sleeps.

House lies in his comfortable bed and stares at the ceiling. They've started to notice, at work, that he's sleeping too much. He arrives even later than usual each day, and today he'd actually drifted off during a differential. Cuddy's beginning to bother him about seeing someone, getting some help. He might make an appointment tomorrow, he thinks. Or the next day, maybe.

But until he can actually do that, he thinks each night about the method he's discovered, to deny sleep any access to him. He doesn't do it every night--only on nights like this one, when he knows he doesn't deserve the escape that sleep would provide.

Before he gets into bed, he puts the bottle of Vicodin on the table in the living room. He leaves his cane leaning against the edge of the couch. Then he limps to his room. By the time he's arrived, sans cane, the pain's already begun in earnest. So he lies there and allows it to build. At first, it simply swirls around him, a hot, amorphic mist.

But eventually it takes shape, and form--becomes strong metal bars surrounding him, preventing him from moving at all, the bars growing thicker, stronger, feeding off of each pain-hitched breath. And when his body is aching to move, desperate to escape its own agony, and he's trapped, jailed inside the pain, he knows he's arrived. And that low, continuous moan that can't possibly be emanating from him? That's just Wilson, in the bathroom at some ungodly hour, with that blasted hairdryer. He smiles. And then he waits for the dawn.

something interesting about that (at least to me)--i awaken between 5 and 5:20 each morn, and the two pieces posted in the a.m. (visiting and midnight) were both written--in their entirety--between then and waking koda at 7:00am. i go back, do minor revisions/additions prior to posting, but not much changes from what they originally "tell" me to write. i'm guessing that (in this grim place they find themselves) they're best able to convey these feelings starkly, quickly. weird, huh?

It takes a LOT of talent to get soooooo much in to such short pieces. You certainly have my respect and my admiration. I never knew how much of a masochist I am. I keep reading these and getting voluntarily kicked in the gut. Dare I hope for more? And dare I even hope that eventually there will be some sort of at least semi-happy closure for them?

I'm seriously tearing up now. And I'm in a public library... damn. *swallows thickly* How do you do this???

I love it how they both use sleep to try to connect to the other - no, you know what? I won't analyze this chapter here. I'll just read it again and then go home and hope for the best. Thanks for the amazing story and the quick update! Hope the plotbunny isn't bugging you too much. :-)

I've been following this story since "Visiting Hour" and I planned to leave a comment just when you've finished. But this part I must say is outstanding. The pain and regret that trapped House. The moments before fallen asleep that set Wilson free. It's perfectly IC and so painful real. Great, great story even if you make me cry a lot!

Ohmigod. Why? The clouds that are threatening to pour open outside my window are nothing compared to the sheer amount of angst you've managed to cram into less than 600 words. Why? T.T

Poor Wilson. Poor House. Poor Wilsie! The next in this series oughta be Eloping Hour, wherein House breaks Wilson out of jail, whisking him away on his motorbike and riding off with him into the happy, happy sunset.